


all i wanna hear him say is "are you mine?"

by paradoxIdolatry



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Breathplay, Cheating, Drunk Sex, Incest, Infidelity, M/M, Past Underage Sex, Revenge Sex, Underage Jake/Dirk in flashback
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 22:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxIdolatry/pseuds/paradoxIdolatry
Summary: Two wrongs don’t make a right, but indulging your filthiest fantasy come true sure will take the sting off the heartache. One night won’t kill this relationship. You may love Jake, but you love your Bro too, and tonight, you’re going to indulge to your heart’s content.





	all i wanna hear him say is "are you mine?"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aewin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aewin/gifts).

> "For (insert contrived reason here), Dirk is able to meet Alpha Dave. Whether it's a one-night stand or has more of a lead-in time, it ends up with them fucking. The drama here is that Dirk is cheating on Jake to do it. WHOOPS. Whether you want to show the relationship effects (whatever you may headcanon them to be) here is up to you, I mostly just want Dirk mentally warring between the desire for his brother and the fact that he's cheating - and losing to the desire. If Jake and Dirk have sex, or Dirk masturbates, I kind of want him to picture Alpha Dave while doing it ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)"

You can’t stop staring at Dave’s lips.

The mattress creaks beneath the two of you as you settle upon your knees just atop Dave’s thighs, staring down at him from on high as he reclines before you on one of your boyfriend’s dozen or so guest beds. You could be staring down at his chest, newly bare as you pluck the last button of his black silk shirt from its hole, rising and falling in shallow breaths. You could even be staring at the small tent pressed against the crotch of his slacks, nestled so closely to your own that they almost touch.

But you’re not, because you’re staring at the way he’s worrying his lower lip with his teeth in barely restrained want as he watches _you,_ and you can confidently say you’ve never seen anything sexier in your life.

Which is, you’ll admit plainly but only to yourself, a scandalous and terrible thought, because Dave is not your boyfriend. Jake is.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and, as outlandish as it may sound, you’re about to cheat on your boyfriend with your older brother.

You can’t rightfully say you ever thought you’d end up in any part of this situation--”being unfaithful to your boyfriend of nearly a decade” ranked up there with “meeting your older brother (and not just his pre-scratch self, but the genuine article)” on the list of shit you never planned on happening--but you also can’t rightfully say you’re terribly surprised to end up here, all things considered.

The role your Bro played in your life may have been more distant than either of you could ever have wanted it to be, what with the gap of a few centuries or so between the end of his life and the beginning of yours, but that did not stop him from being an integral part of your upbringing. While he had been busy preparing his apartment to withstand the coming centuries until your inevitable arrival, baby-proofing the outlets and stockpiling the cabinets with all the non-perishables and orange soda one rad little baby could ever need, he knew there was one thing he could not stuff in a vacuum-seal bag that you would need more desperately than anything: human interaction and guidance.

So, along with the food and the dope SBaHJ DVDs, he left you several hard drives full of home videos. Some were relatively short and to the point, instructional videos on how to do shit like brush your teeth; others were hours long, rambling train-of-thought word vomit on any and every thing that crossed his mind. From workshopping his newest film idea at a hypothetical three-year-old (you were seven when you found _this_ file and had already seen that film twice) to a heartfelt (and, you suspected later, drunk) apology for not being there to raise you his own damn self, he had a video prepared for every occasion to fill the lonely minutes and share some bits of himself with you across the ages.

Hours and hours of pure, unfiltered Dave Strider attention in glorious mediocre .mp4 format, for your eyes and your eyes _only._ Pouring his heart and soul out to you, for you, across the centuries. Before your discovery of the internet and the friends you would find waiting for you therein, these videos were your whole world.

_He_ was your whole world.

Your Bro became something of a fixation for you in your loneliest hours, which were, admittedly, most of them. As you began to grow from a lonely little runt into a full-blown adolescent, this fixation started to change shape.

The first time you touched yourself, it was to thoughts of your Bro. And the second time, too. Honestly, until you really figured out how to use the internet properly, your sexual awakening was spent devoting untold hours to your Bro. After you made the Auto-Responder years later, it was one of his favorite things to drag out of your early adolescent past to rub in your face.

And then one day, you actually sat down to figure out this weird alien internet tech, and your whole world changed irrevocably.

With the advent of the internet into your life, so too came a number of other things. Friends. A newfound sense of social norms and expectations. Furries.

And, most importantly, Jake English.

It wasn’t love at first Heyo! Maybe it wasn’t even _like_ at first Heyo! But somewhere between then and committing to play Sburb with your friends, you had fallen irrevocably and undeniably head-over-heels in love with Jake English, and gradually, you put those fantasies of the Bro you would never meet behind you.

...or, so you thought, until the first time you and Jake had sex. When the two of you had stolen away to LOMAX for a little quality alone time, you knew better than to expect fireworks and a mind-blowing orgasm out of your first time together. Hell, you’ll give it to Jake--retrospectively, even for a first timer, he was doing quite well for himself, which isn’t hard when you’re hung like a goddamned Greek god. Or a horse, you guess, would be the expected comparison there.

What you did not anticipate was just how hard it was to even get close to cumming. He was doing all the right things, hitting all the right spots and paying such sweet attention to you, and yet you just...could not..._cum._ He was not growing impatient, per se, but _you_ were with your own damn self. Ass up, cheek pressed to the grassy knoll the two of you found yourself getting frisky upon, you began flipping through your mental catalogue of kinky fap material, trying with increasing frustration to find something--anything--to think of that would help you get your rocks off while your boyfriend fucked you into the dirt.

You were about to enter one of your patented Di-Stri shame spirals when an old fantasy raised from the ether. From this angle, you could not see Jake behind you. From this angle, he could be _anyone._

Including your brother.

In your mind’s eye, you could see yourself perfectly, the camera pulled back to a full shot, on your hands and knees on the grassy burial mound with Dave knelt behind you. The stocky, adventure-roughened fingers of your boyfriend on your hips replaced with Dave’s longer, knobbier pianist fingers, gripping you close as he ground into your ass, just a little under-prepared for one’s first anal excursion with another person. You couldn’t say you minded. You knew going into this you’d like it a little rough.

(You know now, nearly a decade later, that there is no such thing as too much lube, even in the roughest of rumbles in the pumpkin patch.)

You imagined your Bro’s cock to be a little less thick, a little less long. You though he probably knew how to use it a bit more skillfully. From what you gleaned from those old tabloids, Hollywood types like him were regularly up to their ears in as much ass as they could stick their dicks in and while you couldn’t say with any degree of certainly how true that would have been for him, fantasies are rarely limited by trivial notions like reality.

By the fifth stroke of your Bro’s--Jake’s--hand on your cock, you’d finally cum.

The guilt didn’t come until later, when the two of you were relaxing, watching the movements of the skeletons among the red ruins below. All you’d wanted since you met him was Jake, and you finally had him, and yet...was it not enough? You felt that age old anxiety bubbling up in your gut, turning your innards to rot: that you’d messed up again, that you couldn’t leave well enough alone, that if Jake could know the thoughts in your head while he had been trying his best to please you, he’d--

He kissed you then, and the anxiety evaporated, just like that. Gas in the atmosphere.

You rationalized then that of _course_ you’d needed the help to get off. Nobody’s first time was ever mind-blowing or even good. You resolved to never fantasize about Dave again and to refocus your attentions upon Jake properly, and so you did. Your fantasies of fucking your long, _long_ since dead Bro were put behind you.

Then you and Jake broke up.

Not at once, but months later, as the game was nearing its completion. You had held on too tight for too long, choking him, smothering him when he kept pulling away. Before you could even get the chance to dwell on the hurt and heal, the both of you had to focus on the task at hand. Soon enough, the game was won and the prize was yours to claim.

It was not until later--months, perhaps a few years--that the two of you got the chance to sit down and really talk about what had happened. What had gone wrong. You had entered the conversation with the faintest of hopes of simply salvaging your friendship with your best bro, anxious as the prospect made you.

When he reached across the table at the cafe and took your hand in his, you felt your heart nervously soar into your throat. You played it as cool as you ever had, but that night when he took you back to his mansion to fuck you into his mattress, you couldn’t deny how in love with Jake English you still were.

Even if it took him another year of booty calls before he asked you out again, you didn’t mind. You were just thrilled to have him back, in that low-key Strider way.

Which is to say, you wanted to spend every waking moment with him, but you reminded yourself that you’re not supposed to _do that_ anymore. Give the guy some breathing space, Dirk. Back up off his nuts and let him do his own thing.

You weren’t perfect about it at first, but you like to think you’ve gotten better about it over the years. Just as Jake still has issues with commitment and being wholly truthful about his feelings that he has to work on, though you try to be understanding. Looking isn’t the same as fucking, yeah? Neither is making out with someone else, you suppose, though you can’t say you’re as fond of catching him doing that.

You mean, Jake and you have always had rough patches. What couple doesn’t? There have been a few more splits over the years, but you always patched things back up quickly enough. He’s getting better about it. You’re getting better at turning a blind eye. A guy needs his space and doesn’t need a boyfriend mother-henning him twenty-four seven.

It’s fine.

It’s complicated, but it’s _fine._ You manage.

What’s infinitely more complicated is the day the sky starts to spit out ghosts. Jury’s still out on how fine that is.

First it was some troll kids, then it was a _lot_ of troll kids, and then there were alternate selves. You first hear of this from Dave--not your _Bro,_ but beta Dave, your same-aged lil bro--who had tried to cooly inform you that he had just seen his Bro and a feathery orange asshole version of himself just a minute ago and that he totally wasn’t having some sort of crisis over it. Pfft. Him? _Never._

So of course you had to go over to his and Karkat’s place and distract him with movies until he’d calmed down. It’s what bros do, after all. When he’d chilled out, he told you about it in detail--where he’d seen them, what they were like. They didn’t seem dead. No bloody, gaping wound in his Bro’s chest. They didn’t even look like ghosts. They were just _there,_ as real and living as you and him here in the den. You asked, casually, if he saw anyone else with them, and you tried not to look too disappointed when he said no.

You’re fairly certain he knew anyway, because you’re just as certain he’d have felt similarly disappointed if it had happened in reverse.

You spent the next couple of days loitering where he had seen the two other Striders manifest, an idle hope waging war with the deep cynicism that made up your worldview. Or maybe you were just scared, which is total bullshit, because stone-cold ninjas like you don’t _do_ scared. You just couldn’t seem to stop your anxieties from turning over and over in your head, a thousand lines of thought at once racing in all directions.

What if he was nothing like the Dave you had come to know and grow close to in the last decade? You sure as hell weren’t like _his_ Bro...right? You figure he would probably recognize you as some kin to him if he saw you--the resemblance is there--but would that be enough to make him care?

Would he even be brought back by whatever function of this new world was resurrecting the dead? You had no idea the criteria for this bullshit.

You’re on your third cup of coffee on the fifth day, texting Jake that yeah, you’ll meet him for dinner after his meeting with the heads at SkaiaNet, when you finally see him. For just a minute, you think your heart stops. It’s one thing to see a person in photos; another to see them in grainy old video.

Neither thing holds a candle to Dave fucking Strider, your older brother, standing at the corner of the sidewalk, living and in the flesh. And he’s staring right at you.

You say nothing as he walks over to you, his gait unhurried and almost hesitant. When you rise silently to meet him, you realize you’re shorter than him, but it’s hard to tell from the easy slouch he holds himself with. He looks younger than you thought he would be, but the world-weary exhaustion he wears plain on his face ages him ten years. This is a man who’s seen war and tyranny first hand and fought like a dog to the very last against it.

He is so fucking handsome, putting your every dream and half-remembered recollection of those videos to shame. Something old and long-buried awakens in your gut and you swallow thickly to keep it quiet.

He sees you studying him even behind your shades and he gives you a small, crooked smile. He says, hey kiddo, you--

Whatever he planned to say dies as you hug him, tight. You’ve never hugged someone so quickly and so close in your life, not even Jake. If you could crush him in your arms, you would, and you’re pretty goddamned sure he would let you. When he finally manages to push down the shock, he hugs you back just as tight.

Neither of you acknowledge the tears that you wipe away as you take your seats.

You and your Bro talk about everything then, much the same way you and your little bro Dave had when you first met. He apologizes for not being there for you; you tell him that that’s okay because he was there. Just not in the way either of you had ever hoped. You talk about what it was like, living out in the middle of the ocean and you ask him about his life before his final fight with the Condesce. He talks about how Houston was for him growing up, and when you ask if he really did live his earliest years busking for money as an adorable little homeless scamp, he only grins.

The two of you sit at that cafe until well past closing, much to the chagrin of the workers who are reluctant to shoo a couple of their gods off so they can wipe down the tables for the night. The street lamps come on and the two of you decide to go on a walk through the streets, making your way to the park nearby to continue your chat with only moths and a couple of wayward stoners to keep you company. By the time you make your way home, your heart is fluttering in a way it hasn’t in years.

You miss your dinner with Jake. When he asks where you were, you tell him, and he smiles wide and tells you that it’s so great that you get the chance to finally meet your long-lost brother! Not Dave, he clarifies, and you say yeah, you know. He’s incredibly similar to Dave but not in all the right ways, but you keep that part to yourself.

When Jake fucks you that night, you think of your Bro on top of you again for the first time in over a decade. You keep that part to yourself, too.

You meet up with your Bro again that weekend and gift a phone and laptop to him. Just to have, because everyone needs one, you say. So you can keep in contact with him, you mean.

The two of you meet twice a week, every week, for six months after that. As much as you’d love to spend more time with him, you are a busy god, and he needs time to get back on his feet and deal with the fact that he is living once more after who knows how long. It’s an adjustment, but by all accounts, he seems to be taking it well, especially after _his_ Rose appears and helps ease his sense of displacement in this new world.

The arrival of the "ghosts" has other unintended side-effects.

They pose a lot of questions about the nature of this new universe, about how it is that they’ve arrived here. Questions that SkaiaNet--and Jake and Jade, at the helm--seek to answer. It keeps him busy and soon you’re seeing your Bro more than you’re seeing your boyfriend. You’re disappointed, sure, but you can’t deny him an adventure and a chance to discover something new and interesting about this strange world you and your lot have created.

You put rumors of him spending time with a couple of foxy new interns out of your mind, as best as social media will allow you.

When Jake gets on television later to announce that his team at SkaiaNet had made some important new discoveries about this miracle, you are thrilled for him, of course. When he comes home and kisses you and tells you all about it, you hold his hand and you listen. You’re happy for him. You don’t even pay the slightest bit of attention to the fading bruise under his collar.

He tells you that he plans on throwing a party to celebrate this breakthrough at his mansion and he gets on one knee to ask you if you would like to attend, hamming it up big-proposal style. He knows parties aren’t really your thing but assures you that the rest of the old gang will be there. Even Dave, he says, knowing how fond of your little bro you are. You know this is his trump card in getting you out of your apartment every once in a while to attend anything more than a private dinner date.

You ask if you can invite your Bro too, and he beams and says Yes of course darling! What a *capital* idea.

So here you are, a few days later, and this isn’t just some high-society soiree where the social and economic elite can rub elbows together while enjoying a nice glass of shiraz and engage in quiet, intellectual banter about the discoveries the party has been thrown to commemorate. It’s more akin to a frathouse rager, with all the world’s leading astrophysicists doing ecstasy and the financial analysts doing keggers.

You almost wish you hadn’t gone, but Dave is there, and your Bro is too, and the three of you stand on the balcony overlooking the grand foyer, enjoying the show from above. You’re a little tipsy, and Dave is _drunk,_ which isn’t something he is often. You can’t quite tell if your Bro is drunk, even with an ever-refilling glass in his hand, but if the way he and Dave are trading riffs is any indication, he’s at least having fun.

He’s got such an intoxicating smile. He catches you staring, once, and the corners of his lips turn up a little more. You feel yourself blush and avert your gaze before Jade wanders up to the three of you and asks if you’ve seen Jake.

Somehow, it doesn’t occur to you until she calls your attention to it that you haven’t seen your boyfriend all night. You say, no, but you’ll go look for him, and she takes the drink from your hand with a wink and says she’ll keep this warm for you. You don’t have the presence of mind to tell her that you’re not really supposed to keep drinks warm, and you don’t think from the way she’s leaning on Dave as you walk away that she meant the drink anyhow.

The floors above the first are lightly populated with party-goers, growing sparser as you climb the stairs further and further up. Jake’s bedroom is on the top floor, and you know from experience that he likes to tuck up here when a party becomes just a touch too much and he becomes overwhelmed by the people and the attention. You figure that’s what’s happened--this is, perhaps, the rowdiest party he’s thrown in quite some time. You know, at the very least, that you are overwhelmed.

Passing a few of the guest rooms feels akin to passing down the hall of a local brothel, the soft (and not-so-soft) sounds of horny, inebriated people getting it on pouring through the doors as you make your way towards Jake’s bedroom. A familiar moan from behind one of the guest room doors, however, stops you dead.

You don’t have to peek in to know you’re going to find Jake nestled between someone else’s legs, but you do anyway. You think you’re just masochistic like that.

It’s strange, really. The numbness you feel as you float your way back downstairs, bypassing the halls full of smiling, happy people is so achingly familiar. It brings a sense of peace with it that you just hate. When you return to where you left your brothers and Jade, you’re vaguely aware of Dave making some comment about how you never float around the way he does, and you suppose that’s true. You just can’t make your tongue work enough to respond to him.

When you snatch your drink from Jade’s hand, she protests only a little before asking if you’d found Jake. You say yeah, he’s upstairs, and your Bro must see something in the hard set of your jaw because he asks you what’s wrong.

You turn and leave.

Not the mansion, which would have been the smart thing to do. Oh no. You need to get out of the thick of the party, it’s true, but you find yourself just a few doors down from where Jake is fucking some woman whose face you vaguely recognized from his selfies on Snapchat and whose name you don’t give a shit about knowing.

You’re pacing around and trying not to have a panic attack, so it’s no surprise you don’t hear the door open behind you. You _do_ hear the soft clearing of a throat and you whirl around, ready to lash out, when you see your Bro standing there, leaned against the door he had just pushed shut. He’s got a bottle of something bubbly in his hand and his mouth is full of slurred, rambling words about how he’s no good at this comforting thing but you looked pretty distressed back there, so he wanted to--

You kill whatever else he was about to say with a shove against the door and a kiss crushed against his lips. You don’t even think about it; you don’t have to. Sometimes, a man’s just got to take action, and if that action is kissing your hot older Bro with all the years of pent-up lust and aching vengeance in your heart, who are you to deny it? You don’t want to hear whatever platitudes he’s got to offer; you don’t want to think about Jake, even as the very thought of him burns up every last rational thought you’ve got in your head.

But your Bro’s so still before you that you’re seized with a terrible guilt and you realize what you’re doing, pulling away with that terrible rotgut self-loathing roiling in the pit of your stomach. Even if Jake is doing this very thing a few rooms down, it doesn’t mean you should, too. Especially not with your Brother, for fuck’s sake. Look at you--you’ve gone and blown it, Dirk. You’ve freaked him out and he’s never going to want anything to do with you aga--

When he grabs you by your elbows and pulls you back in for another kiss, you can’t say you were expecting it. You for damn sure can’t say you didn’t want it.

The bottle of champagne he’d brought finds itself on the bedside table as you pull him backwards towards the bed, fist balled around his white silk tie like a leash. He follows your lead more than readily, letting you turn him around and push him on the bed with a little laugh. You love the sound of it and you find yourself possessed with the need to hear all the sweet little sounds he’s got holed up within him.

You can’t stop staring at Dave’s lips.

The mattress creaks beneath the two of you as you settle upon your knees just atop your Bro’s thighs, staring down at him from on high as he reclines before you on one of your boyfriend’s dozen or so guest beds. You could be staring down at his chest, newly bare as you pluck the last button of his black silk shirt from its hole, rising and falling in shallow breaths. You could even be staring at the small tent pressed against the crotch of his slacks, nestled so closely to your own that they almost touch.

But you’re not, because you’re staring at the way he’s worrying his lower lip with his teeth in barely restrained want as he watches _you,_ and you can confidently say you’ve never seen anything sexier in your life.

Which is, you’ll admit plainly but only to yourself, a scandalous and terrible thought, because Dave is not your boyfriend. Jake is.

Your fingers hesitate for just a moment upon the skin-warmed metal of his admittedly sweet SBaHJ engraved belt buckle as the realization of what you’re about to do dawns on you. Kissing your Bro when you’re dating another man is one thing, or several things if you take all the layers of it into account. But you know better than to think that the way you’re fondling his hard cock through his pants is anywhere near excusable.

You’re angry at Jake, it’s true. The two of you have a lot to work on if you want this to work, but that’s just it--you _do_ want it to work. You love him with all of your heart.

But.

But…

God _damn_ is your Bro so fucking hot.

His torso, more ripped than he has any fucking right to be for a _Dave,_ is criss-crossed with scars that beg for you to kiss and lick the length of them, just as he’s leaning up to do to the scars encircling your neck. It’s so tender, it steals your breath from your fucking lungs, and you think to yourself, he’s even on the same wavelength at you. Getting all intimate with your scars and shit.

The stubble on his jaw scratches your calloused fingertips as you tip his head back, sealing your lips over his once more.

Two wrongs don’t make a right, but indulging your filthiest fantasy come true sure will take the sting off the heartache. One night won’t kill this relationship. You may love Jake, but you love your Bro too, and tonight, you’re going to indulge to your heart’s content.

Your lips trail ghost-light down your Bro’s neck, over the swell of his battle-hardened muscles, as you slide from his lap into the floor between his spread legs. The mattress creaks once more as he sits up on his elbows as you unzip his pants with your teeth, slipping the belt from its loops to press into his palm. You tell him to hold onto it--you’re going to need it soon. His cock twitches beneath the thin fabric of his boxers before you.

Taking him into your mouth is easier than you anticipated; years of practice on Jake has made you something of a pro at sucking dick, and Jake is bigger than Dave by a sizeable amount. You know you’re doing good from the way he’s sighing, white-knuckling the sheets. You love the way he moans low in his throat as you take him deep into yours and you sincerely don’t mind when he grips the back of your head to fuck your face in swift, shallow strokes.

From the way you’re palming your own cock as he does so, you suppose “sincerely don’t mind” is underselling it a little. You _love_ choking on a good cock, and while you would be more than happy to just let him finish in your mouth and swallow the evidence all up, you don’t want this to be over so soon. When you bat his hand away and pull off of him to stand and kick off your pants, he whines, and you tell him to hush and hold his horses a second.

You can safely say you’ve fucked Jake in every room of this house, and as such, you can just as safely say you know that there should be a bottle of lube and a pack of rubbers in the bedside table. When you pull them out to show him what you have in mind, Dave grins wide.

He beckons for the half-used bottle and you oblige, tossing it into his waiting hands in exchange for the belt he had kept safe for you. He warms the lube in his hands, slicking his cock with it as he asks you casually if you’re going to tie him up with that thing. Because he’s into it, he says.

When you answer by slipping the belt in a loop around your neck, the tail pulled through the buckle, he gives you a soft oh and raised eyebrows, but that grin never leaves his face. When the rubber is in place, you crawl back onto his lap and press the end of the belt into his palm, telling him not to be afraid to give it a good tug, much to his delight.

He asks you for a safe word as you guide his hand to press to your ass. He’s already two knuckles deep into you when you manage to say that you and Jake use the stoplight system, which you regret immediately as guilt punches you in the gut. You wait for him to pull his fingers out of you, only to be pleasantly surprised when he pushes up to the third knuckle, a laugh in his throat.

You ask what’s so funny, though you dread the answer. You don’t know if you could handle being chastised or made fun of for cheating on your boyfriend with your Brother’s finger deeply embedded in your ass. He says, instead, that he remembered that his old safeword used to be fergalicious.

Seriously?

seriously

You’re such a Dave, you mutter, before allowing yourself a moment to enjoy the sensation of your ass being fingered. He really does have those long pianist fingers, all knobs and rough with callouses, and you love the slide of them against the inner walls of you. By the time he’s finished prepping you, you’re a shuddering mess, leaning with your forehead mashed against his shoulder for support.

He helps guide you to his cock and you sink down to the hilt upon him in one swift motion, moaning deep as he fills you to the brim. It is not the same near-overwhelming fullness that Jake’s cock gives you, so thick that it’s nearly painful even now to take him completely. It’s comfortable and settles in the small of your stomach in a searing heat that feels almost like home.

You don’t have time to unpack that right now.

Your hands on Dave’s shoulders, you push him back to lay flush to the quilted covers, drawing up to your full height so that he can get a good view of you as you begin to ride him in earnest. The slow, grinding roll of your hips on his brings a hitch to his breath, and he’s quick to return the favor by giving the belt an experimental tug. It tightens just so around your neck, and you make sure to moan sweet for him and give your hips a particularly passionate rut to let him know, oh yes, more of that please.

Luckily for you, he’s an astute observer. When he gives the belt another tug, jerking you closer to him, an electric thrill runs through you. You reward him with a shift of your weight onto your knees to bounce in his lap, riding him with an urgency you didn’t even know you felt until that very moment.

You ride him for all he’s worth and then some, almost delirious in the intoxication you feel in his presence. This is better than any of the wet dreams he had ever starred in; it puts all of your half-hearted fantasies to shame. The way he fucks up into you, slapping your ass near raw as he tells you how good you feel on his cock? You never imagined it like this, and it’s all the better for it.

You call for ‘yellow’ only once when the belt gets a little _too_ tight around your neck, and you take a minute to take in a deep breath, before you get right back to it with a gusto. You promise him that you’re going to fuck his brains out, and you’ve no doubt from the sounds he’s making below you, you’re making good on that promise.

By the time he finishes, eyes rolled back behind those shades that have not once come off of his face, you’re so ready to be spent that you _hurt._ You continue to ride his cock, as long as you can, as he reaches up to take you into his palm, but a few short strokes finishes you off in a spray of white across his stomach and curled fist. He strokes you through your orgasm and you curl over him to lick and bite at his neck. By the time you’re done with him, he looks as wrecked as the wall behind the bed, dented from the persistent knocking of the frame against it.

The night dissolves into a warm mesh of cuddles and spontaneous, sleepy sex, the both of you too drunk and exhausted to go at it so hard again. You drift off to sleep, and you dream of laying naked with Jake on the grassy burial mounds of LOMAX under the stars, watching the movements of skeletons through the red ruins below.

Neither of you speak about what happened after that night at first. Not out of shame, though you wrestle with that yourself as you shower off in one of Jake’s guest bathrooms the next morning. You suppose you just aren’t sure what to say.

When you see Jake the next morning, he offers you a sheepish smile, pretending not to see the bruises on your neck from the bite of the belt just as you pretend not to see the lipstick stains on his collar. You keep it to yourself, deep in your chest, right next to where you lock the memory of him fucking his intern. You give him a kiss, and he kisses you back, soft and sweet.

You have a lot to work on, it’s true, and a lot of things to discuss. You think, maybe, you will, one day. You don’t want to lose Jake. You know that well, even if his wandering eye makes you sick with a grief like mourning. You lost him once already, and you’re learning to come to terms with what you’re willing to do or put up with to make this work.

You don’t even say anything as he makes eyes at the waiter when you all go out to lunch later that day. You’re too busy looking at your phone, a new message from your Bro flashing on the screen.

BRO: busy later?


End file.
